14 May 2010

Tryst

There are two weeping cherry trees in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. They are all twisted and ancient. They look like mirrors of each other. Like you could press them together.

They look like old lovers. Mattresses with the shapes of their owners pressed permanently into them.

Tryst 5/13

The weeping cherry is a body wrapping itself over itself it's lonely warmth makes it forget the taste of saliva the smell of armpits memory makes it twist makes it bloom sad - deep inside pink it has seen its share of meals - seasons - blood

The weeping cherry has never touched the ground its branches fall to the calf - soft hem catching the breeze as it walks over subway ventilation purring against thighs knees all knobby bending against railings like lovers

The weeping cherry is a cast of a body reclining on a body entwined in sex act - engorged the lover long vanished - would fill all spaces where one branch seems smoothed out hollow skin pressing on the air like an old man's arm on glass -